and my fingers itch with want to just touch, just a small tap. i want.

and i say something ugly and you crinkle your nose in distaste and my heart skips a beat because that, that's what i want.

you grin, ugly and mangled-

liar.

i think you’re pretty. i think you’re the moon and the stars and i want to kiss your breath away but i cant.

let's go home, i say.

and if this parking lot is the sole spectator of my heart attack,
i’m okay with it.

and this feels like something siken would wax poetic about,

you’re sitting in a ****** sedan with broken windows with a pretty girl in a parking lot-

but again and again, i’ll beat him to it.

i’ll wax poetics about you until your shoes are shiny and your ring is gleaming.

for once in my sixteen years of life, i love you becomes a real, tangible thing i can touch.

for once in my sixteen years of life, ten years from now doesn't matter, because twenty-six will not feel like this.

and if you’ll throw away this memory in three months, i’ll pick it up and store it in a glass jar next to my bed.

because at sixteen, all you are is real.